A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1)

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Really, you’re going to use this as an opportunity to do fat jokes?” responded Brigit. “OK, so he’s put on a few pounds.”

  “A few?!” Paul said while pointing at Brophy.

  “Could you do me a favour and not point at the guy we’re trying to surreptitiously locate?”

  “Right. Sorry.” Paul withdrew his finger.

  He looked at Brigit as she stood up. He’d been so distracted with feeling guilty, angry and embarrassed over their fight in the car, it suddenly dawned on him that they’d not discussed any plan of action once they’d actually found Brophy. Just walking up to him and blurting out that his only successful book was bullshit seemed like a tricky conversation starter.

  “What’re we going to do?” said Paul.

  “You, are going to stay here and try and keep out of trouble,” said Brigit. “I am going to handle this.”

  “Fair enough,” said Paul, trying not to look hurt.

  Brigit brushed herself down, put on her jacket and then, after a moment’s thought, opened the top button of her blouse.

  Paul raised an eyebrow and she gave him a sarcastic smile in response.

  “What can I tell you? Men are idiots.”

  And then she left. Paul watched her negotiate her way across the street.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled to himself, “we are. We really are.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  DI Jimmy Stewart (suspended) was repulsed.

  If there was one part of the job he wouldn’t miss, it was definitely the smell. Normally, when he’d been called to a dead body, he’d have brought the tin of Vick’s from his desk drawer. A little on the top lip usually took the edge off the worst of it. The ripe ones were the foulest. The ones long enough dead for decomposition to have really kicked in. Those bodies were the hardest to get a result on too. You could often smell how bad a week you were going to have before you ever saw the body. Stewart had heard others ascribe a hint of sweetness to the smell, but he’d never understood that. It was just rotten, putrid death to him. The stench clung to clothing too, like a nagging ghost, demanding to be avenged. When he’d given up the fags, the long-suffering Mrs Stewart would occasionally comment on the new and unpleasant whiff she detected now and then from his clothes. He’d not had the heart to tell her. He’d made up stories about having to go dumpster diving for evidence instead.

  So this was not the worst smelling scene Stewart had been called to, not by a long shot, but it hands down won that award in the sub-category of scene that didn’t feature a dead body. He’d taken the stairs two at a time and heaved open the door to the inner office of Greevy and Co. Solicitors, only to reflexively reel back at the olfactory assault. Detective Donnacha Wilson (inactive through mandated medical leave) ran into the back of him.

  “What the fuck?” said Wilson. “It smells like someone baked a shite!” It may’ve been lacking in bedside manner, but it was an accurate description.

  If the smell was arresting, the sight that greeted them was doubly so.

  A pregnant woman was standing bent over in the centre of the room. In one hand she held what looked to be a particularly nasty cattle prod. It was hovering 3 inches above the back of a prone figure that lay spread-eagle on the ground. In the other hand, she was holding a can of mace that was pointing directly at DI Jimmy Stewart’s face. The woman was caked in sweat, and her eyes were puffy from crying. “Stewart?”

  “Yes,” said Stewart, “that’s me. Nora Stokes, I assume?”

  “ID,” she said.

  “I don’t have any. I’ve been suspended. Wilson?”

  He looked around at the younger man, whose head was currently wrapped in a large white bandage. “Shit, it’s in the car.”

  Stewart took a step back. “OK, Miss Stokes, just relax. I am DI Jimmy Stewart. We spoke last night on the phone. You might recognise my voice?”

  She looked at him, her eyes screwing up with concentration.

  “Say something else?”

  “You look like you could use a cup of tea.”

  She dropped both weapons and staggered back to lean on the desk, placing her hands on her lower back.

  “Right answer. Christ, my back is killing me!”

  “Are you OK?”

  She nodded through heavy breaths.

  “Did he lay a finger on you?”

  She shook her head. “He tried.”

  The threat of vengeance from above having been removed, the prone figure on the floor piped up. “I’ve been assaulted! I want to press charges!”

  Stewart leaned down to take a good look at the man’s face.

  “Mick Sherry, as I live and breathe. Long time no see. You appear to have shat yourself, Michael.”

  He lifted his head up. “It’s her fault.”

  “Really? I look forward to hearing you explain that in court.”

  “Boss.”

  Stewart looked up to see Wilson pointing at something in the corner.

  “Ah. By any chance, have you lost a gun, Michael?”

  “I’ve never seen that before in my life.”

  “Of course you haven’t, and I’m sure the fingerprint evidence will back you up entirely on that.”

  “I demand a lawyer!”

  “You’re in luck, there’s one here, but she doesn’t appear to be a massive fan of yours.”

  The man Stewart had correctly identified as Mick Sherry made to stand up. Stewart moved his foot to rest on Sherry’s fingers.

  “Stay right where you are, Michael.”

  “This is police brutality.”

  “I sent your Uncle Terry down twice and your brother down once,” said Stewart. “They’re both irredeemable criminals, but not bad lads as those sorts go.”

  “What the fu…”

  Stewart put just enough weight on his foot for Ferry to realise that silence was his best course of action. “My point is, you just pulled a gun on a pregnant woman. I’m pretty sure not even your own family would object to me kicking seven shades of shit out of you right now.”

  “Six,” said Nora Stokes.

  Jimmy Stewart gave her a quizzical look.

  “Six,” she repeated. “He’s already expelled one shade himself.”

  “Fair point,” said Stewart, before turning to Wilson. “Cuffs?”

  The younger man shook his head.

  “Alright, Mick, I’m going to take Miss Stokes outside to freshen up, but detective Wilson is going to stay with you. He, if anything, takes an even dimmer view than I do of scum who assault women.”

  “I didn’t… agh!”

  Stewart pressed down a little further on his fingers. “The fact that you were unsuccessful in the attempt, Michael, does not help your case one iota.”

  Stewart moved his foot away and turned to Wilson.

  “We’ll be just outside. If he moves, shoot him somewhere memorable.”

  Wilson nodded. Both he and Stewart knew that Wilson hadn’t got a gun, but he was confident Sherry wouldn’t test that. Today was not proving to be the scumbag’s lucky day.

  Stewart picked up the mace and the cattle prod from the floor, and then he guided Stokes out past her former assailant. While she freshened up in the loo, he put the kettle on. By the time she emerged, he’d have two teas ready. He’d also have had time to think about the thing he hadn’t wanted to. The thing that’d been nagging at him since Nora Stokes had called him. The thing he now had no choice but to deal with.

  As luck would have it, when he’d received the call, he’d just driven Wilson home from St Katherine’s Hospital. Stewart had insisted on doing so over Wilson’s protestations. It was the kind of thing you did for your wounded partner. Besides, now that he was suspended, there wasn’t much else for him to do. They’d been parked outside Wilson’ flat like a courting couple at the end of a second date, except Stewart had been in the middle of another awkward attempt at thanking Wilson for saving his life.

  When he’d finally got home last night, Stewart had found sleep hard t
o come by. He’d kept running through what happened in the park over and over again in his mind. He couldn’t let go of the image of the long suffering Mrs Stewart standing in the lobby of Garda HQ, tearful and proud, as they unveiled her departed husband’s name on the marble plaque. Shot in the line of duty. Only on the plaque instead of that, it just said – too proud, too slow, too old. Despite the extra time he’d had to think about it, his second attempt at both apologising to and thanking Wilson had been going even worse than his first. Nora Stoke’s call had been well timed. Stewart had just accidentally quoted a Celine Dion lyric, and he’d started rambling in a desperate attempt to cover.

  As Nora emerged from the toilet, Stewart held out the mug of strong builder’s tea.

  “Better?”

  “Better.”

  “Are you absolutely sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “I’m fine.” She gave him a tired smile. “Just knackered and pregnant.”

  “How long until?”

  “Two weeks. I’m working as late as possible to save up the maternity leave.”

  “Right enough. Should I phone the dad?”

  Nora Stokes blushed. “Let’s leave that one alone, shall we?”

  “Ah right, fair play.” It was Stewart’s turn to look embarrassed.

  They both sat down in the waiting room. Through the closed door they could see Wilson standing guard over his prisoner.

  “For what it’s worth,” said Stewart, “this story will make you a hero to every copper on the force.”

  Stokes gave a tired laugh. “And how many criminal defence lawyers can say that?”

  Stewart slurped his tea and then turned to look at her. “So what do you want to do?”

  “Well, as my own lawyer, it is my job to tell me that possession of a taser-like device is a ten grand fine, up to five years in prison and I’m pretty sure disbarment.”

  “He had a gun.”

  “And I doubt I’ll see prison, but I’ll still be out of a job. You’d be amazed how big on ethics the legal profession gets when the public are watching.”

  “Taser? What Taser? I didn’t see any Taser?”

  Nora Stokes looked at him and smiled. “Having the police cover something up for you, that’s the kind of thing that could compromise a defence lawyer’s integrity.”

  “At the risk of sounding like a misogynistic fuddy-duddy, a copper isn’t helping you out, the father of three daughters is helping you out. I’m just sorry we can’t charge this gobshite, excuse my language.”

  “I was going to say massive dickhead, so you’re excused.”

  “I can guarantee he won’t press charges.”

  Nora Stokes gave him a worried look.

  “Oh no, not like that. More than one way to skin a cat.”

  As he guided him down the stairs, Jimmy Stewart kept a firm grip on the power chord from the kettle that was binding Sherry’s hands. He’d never in his 41 years of service pushed a suspect down a stairs. He’d also never been more tempted. The smell wasn’t even in the top three things that repulsed him about his captive. The fact that he had no choice but to release him boiled his blood.

  Once off the bottom step, Stewart pushed him forward and out the door, into the small tarmac-covered car park outside. It was currently empty save for Stewart’s Rover and Stokes’s Astra. Wilson fell into place beside him. Miss Stokes had remained upstairs, opening windows and whatever else she could do to battle the smell issue.

  “Right, Michael, remember what we discussed. This is your lucky day.”

  Sherry mumbled something unintelligible, which was probably just as well. Stewart was itching to do something he knew he’d regret. He spoke into Sherry’s ear as he untied the chord.

  “She ever sees or hears from you again, Michael, and I will make it my life’s work to destroy you. I’m retiring next week and I’ve got absolutely no hobbies. You do not want to make yourself my only interest, believe me.”

  Stewart gave the chord a sharp tug down, to emphasise his point.

  “And you even think about pressing charges, I will rain down all manner of shit on you, pun intended. You’ll be inside so fast your head will spin…”

  Sherry tried to pull away, but Stewart grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. “And when you get inside, I will personally tell every hard-nosed psycho I’ve ever sent down how you molested a pregnant woman.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “And I’m sure that fact will come out at the coroner’s inquest.”

  Stewart pulled the power chord off and pushed Sherry out into the carpark. He and Wilson stood there for several minutes, watching his slow waddling walk of shame. When Sherry looked back, both men smiled and waved.

  “What a scumbag,” said Wilson.

  “”Lowest of the low. On the upside, I’m pretty sure you could tell he’s shat himself from space.”

  They watched as two teenaged girls stopped and gave Sherry a look of undisguised horror as he walked past. Their laughter could be heard clear across the carpark. Wilson turned to go back inside, Stewart put his hand out to stop him.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Stewart. “How did they know?”

  “What?”

  Stewart gave the younger man a searching look. He saw a flicker of guilt that removed the last shred of hopeful uncertainty that he’d been clinging to. “After Miss Stokes rang me last night, I didn’t tell anybody on the task force. Sure, I should’ve done, but it was a busy night what with the bomb, and the assassination attempt, and my hero partner saving me from death and all that. Plus, I’m old and forgetful.”

  “Fuck sake, Jimmy.”

  Wilson tried to move away, Stewart grabbed his arm and pulled him close.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Donnacha.” He’d never used his first name before, Wilson probably didn’t even realise he knew it. “I didn’t say anything because we’ve got a rat, and the last thing I wanted was someone trying to get to Mulchrone through his lawyer. So I only told you, while you were lying there in your hospital bed.”

  Wilson pulled away, not in anger. He just looked like he might throw up. Stewart guessed he’d not fully realised until that very moment. At least there was that.

  “I…”

  “Do I need to take a look at your mobile, Wilson? Let me guess. Is Gerry Fallon an old family friend?”

  Wilson stood bolt upright, a look of genuine outrage on his face, even as tears filled his eyes.

  “Ah now hang on, Jimmy, you’re way off. Here.”

  Stewart was surprised when Wilson thrust his mobile towards him.

  “She rang me, while you were away upstairs with that IT guy. She just said they wanted to be kept informed, because of the sensitivity…”

  Stewart scrolled down through the outgoing calls. There it was 11:27PM last night – Veronica Doyle. Wilson must have rang her as soon as Stewart had left him. “The fucking PR woman?”

  “Honest, Jimmy, I thought it was just, y’know – helping them control the bad press over the Rapunzel thing. She said she just wanted to be in the loop, manage the media, that kind of thing.”

  Stewart sighed and tossed the phone back to him. “So you’re not a rat, you’re a politician. I suppose it’s in the blood. Doesn’t change anything.” Stewart pointed up the stairs. “What happened up there, is on you.”

  Wilson just stared at the ground. “I know.”

  “This is how they get you,” said Stewart. “Favours for favours. Next thing you know, somebody owns you.”

  “What should I do?”

  Stewart stood and watched the traffic as the lights turned from red to green at the crossroads. Two young lads raced across, taking the chance and getting lucky this time. Young. Invulnerable. “What you do is, you learn the lesson. Last night you were the hero, today you’re… not. Remember how both felt.”

  Wilson nodded.

  “I’m going to stay here in case Mulchrone and Conroy call again.”

  “I’ll do
that.”

  “Oh no,” said Stewart, a hint of a smile crossing his lips, “I’ve got a better gig for you. You’re going to provide a pregnant woman with 24/7 protection until this thing is done.”

  Stewart turned and headed back towards the stairs. “And if I was you, I’d not piss her off. You saw what happened to the last guy.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “What do you mean he wouldn’t help?” said Paul, staring across at Brigit.

  “Exactly that.” Her eyes slid away from his and fixed on the girl mopping the floor instead. “I’m sorry, I… it was a stupid idea. I thought I could explain to him how we were in trouble and appeal to his better angels.” She shook her head. “He must’ve eaten them, the fat prick!”

  Clearly the ban on fat jokes had now been relaxed.

  Paul looked at her and felt even worse than he already did. He’d watched her cross the road and then cadge a cigarette off Brophy. She’d then started a conversation with him and his friends. Paul could swear he’d seen the moment where she’d pretended to recognise Brophy and then excitedly explain how she was a big fan. The large man’s face had been readable from across the street as it lit up like a kid’s at Christmas. She must’ve said she was a big fan of Bloody Lovely. He was guessing Brophy had never heard that before, from anyone, even family members. His mates had left them to it, nudging and winking at each other as they stumbled back into the bar. Paul didn’t know what disturbed him more, that they thought that Brophy might be ‘in’ there, or that the man himself might be thinking the same thing.

  Watching Brigit work, Paul couldn’t help but be impressed. She’d hooked and isolated the target in record time; those were some nice spy moves. He’d liked it less when other smokers had come out and Brigit had subtly guided Brophy further down the alley, away from the crowd. Alright, it wasn’t exactly a dark alley on the wrong side of town. Paul knew for a fact it led to the stage door of the Olympia theatre. She’d more chance of getting discovered down there than of meeting any real danger, but still. He’d considered leaving Maccy D’s to either join her or at least keep them in view, but he decided against it. He couldn’t risk fucking up again.